I don’t know her name, and honestly, I’m not sure I’d want to. I don’t really know her story either. Yet, to this day, this is one of the most important photos I feel I’ve ever taken.
An elderly woman who for years made one of the doors of the central market her lottery-selling corner. Perhaps she arrived there before many other vendors, managing to nestle herself in a high-traffic area with guaranteed sales. I imagine her daily ritual… Getting up early, arriving first, claiming the corner, selling lottery tickets, and repeating tomorrow.
Until suddenly she didn’t have to arrive early anymore. That door, through the force of her daily ritual, became her right, her space, her heritage. How many winning tickets did she sell? How many ‘miraculous saves’ did she make? And yet, her luck never changed. And why do people sell lottery tickets, to keep selling or to stop one day? Until she became part of the market.
And it’s already hard enough to see an old woman, bent over with age, still having to sell, but to also see her portrayed on her door. I understand the portrait as a tribute to her permanence in that space, but I can’t help but think of the Greek gods’ punished kings, Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion. Painted on the market door, even when she’s gone, she’ll still be there…
Maybe I’m reading too much into a photo. There’s so much more I don’t know about it than what I do… It’s just the impression of not finishing and that sometimes forgetting is also a kind of rest…
… the last time I passed by the market, her portrait was no longer there, nor was she.
